Path of the author

"...For yea verily, the path of the author is strewn with dying liver cells." 

(Quote from the awesomeness that is Tea with the Squash God)

Always a lady

A week ago Sunday, my grandmother passed away. 

And after a week of reflection — interspersed with tears and laughter — I've decided to write some of the thoughts down.

I was 4 years old when my grandfather married "Grandma Dorothy." And all of a sudden this tiny woman with three (grown) children and one teenaged grandchild became step-mother to nine and grandmother to over half a dozen kids. Looking back, I can see how overwhelming it must have been for her.

For my part, I was the youngest of five grandchildren, the rest of them boys. An only-child, I had a flare for the dramatic and tendency to talk to myself. What little I remember of the wedding (in my role as flower girl) involves my new cousin and bridesmaid Marterese (then 16) keeping me occupied with games behind the alter, and having to hold my cousin Joe's hand going back up the aisle (It was sweaty. I didn't like it.)

I was jarred a bit by mother's reaction to her passing. While my mother loved and appreciated her, Grandma Dorothy was her second step-mother. Mom was very blunt about our place as her step family, something I had never considered before. She was never a step relation to me — she was my grandmother, period.

As said during her funeral service, grandma could enter an elevator with four strangers and leave it with four new friends. Growing up, whenever we were out to dinner — whether it was their regular place or someplace new – Grandma Dorothy would "adopt" the waitresses. She was always friendly. She was always polite and courteous. And she appreciated a good life-is-funny laugh. 

She was the epitome of a lady. I still remember her cringing when grandpa encouraged me to wipe my hands off on my pants instead of a napkin.

Perhaps most important to me — she tried. She may not have known to handle all us grandkids, but she made a damn good effort. She couldn't cook very well, so she made a point to stock a variety of Jello packs so she always had our favorites on hand. She took me berry picking, taught me to play Chinese checkers, and took care of me when I was sick. 

She made an effort to learn my favorite flower, and occasionally surprised me with rose adorned presents or souvenirs. Her favorite was iris, something I intend to add to my garden in her memory. She delighted in discovering things we had in common like favorite book ("A Girl of the Limberlost") and favorite TV shows (British comedies).

Grandma Dorothy was always happy to see you. She loved visiting and being social. Even when her memory faded to the point where I'm fairly certain she no longer knew who we were, she was always so happy to see us. One of my more recent cherished memories of her was four years ago when I brought my 6'3" then fiance over to meet them. Grandma, all 4-foot-nothing of her, insisted on giving him the grand tour of their two room, one bath abode — and he dutifully followed her around. It was one of the cutest things I think I've ever seen. I'm so grateful he got to meet her when she was still mostly herself — her wonderful, welcoming and utterly ladylike self. 

Writers

To "Review of a Reviewer"...

(I am a writer professionally. I am using this as an outlet, as I am unable to to address the person in this piece directly.)

To the college student who decided to write a bitter diatribe in response to a review I wrote of the production he was in — if you are going to be in the theater business, you have go to get a thicker skin. 

You only want reviews that say "you're awesome" and "wonderful job." Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not your mother. 

My job as a reviewer is not to sell tickets for the theater. It is not to stroke your ego. It is not to give a historical essay on the play in question. It is to give my honest opinion of the production, period. And frankly, I sugar coated it considerably. 

To your accusation of my naivety and lack of experience — I took theater classes for three years in high school, one year in college, and performed on stage and worked backstage for six years. I was a finalist in a young playwrights competition, as well as multiple Shakespeare competitions.

Your letter to the editor was presumptuous and rude to say the least. Tell you what — why don't you stick to your occupation, and let me handle mine.

Love yourself

Along the lines of my last post, I offer a further examination of "beauty."

I have a couple friends who are obsessed with how they appear, utterly convinced that they must be rail thin to get a man's attention. The truth is, that superficial mumbo-jumbo you've been fed since high school by TV and movies isn't true.

I've had over a dozen guy friends inform me — more than once in some cases — that watching a woman starve herself or workout to extremes to reach that "goal weight" is actually a turn off, not on. And if any man calls you fat or tells you to loose weight, the extra pounds you should be loosing is him.

My husband has never told me at what moment he knew he loved me, but I know it was very early on in our relationship. On one of our first dates, he got to watch me scarf down a fully dressed, 1/4 pound bacon cheese burger. I thought the sauce and juice dripping down my arms might be a turn off, but it's possible that's the moment he fell in love with me.

Every once and awhile when I'm off in my own little world, dancing in the car or sliding around in my stocking feet, I catch him looking at me with a smirk with look of adoration in his eyes. 

That's not to say I don't ever get self conscious or down on myself about my weight — I do. Particularly when I haul out the summer wardrobe and discover nothing fits — it sucks. But my husband has never once put me down about my weight, in fact he thinks I'm mental when I do complain about it.

Too many women settle for abusive men because they think they can't do any better. Figuring out how to love yourself without a man is far better than putting up with any form degradation.

Your goal should not be changing yourself for a guy — the right guy will be attracted to you for who you are, all of what makes you you, inside and out.
<3

Beauty assessment

"It took me too long to realize that I don't take good pictures 'cuz I have the kind of beauty that moves." Ani Difranco

All over facebook the last few weeks I've seen the Dove Beauty ad debate. (If you somehow missed it, here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XpaOjMXyJGk ) Is it uplifting or offensive? People seem torn.

Frankly, part of me thinks some people get offended at almost anything. But that aside, lets discuss the term beauty for a moment. 

"Beau·ty [byoo-tee] noun, plural beau·ties.

1. The quality present in a thing or person that gives intense pleasure or deep satisfaction to the mind, whether arising from sensory manifestations (as shape, color, sound, etc.), a meaningful design or pattern, or something else (as a personality in which high spiritual qualities are manifest).

2. A beautiful person, especially a woman.

3. A beautiful thing, as a work of art or a building.

4. Often, beauties. something that is beautiful in nature or in some natural or artificial environment.

5. An individually pleasing or beautiful quality; grace; charm: a vivid blue area that is the one real beauty of the painting."

and in turn...

"beau·ti·ful [byoo-tuh-fuh l] adjective

1. Having beauty; possessing qualities that give great pleasure or satisfaction to see, hear, think about, etc.; delighting the senses or mind: a beautiful dress; a beautiful speech.

2. Excellent of its kind: a beautiful putt on the seventh hole; The chef served us a beautiful roast of beef.

3. Wonderful; very pleasing or satisfying."

Why are these terms such a touchy subject? Honestly, what's wrong with thinking someone is beautiful, or, god forbid, thinking you yourself are beautiful? And if you are of the vein that believes the "most people are more beautiful than they think", what do you say to those who think we shouldn't be stressing the term or idea of beauty at all?

I agree that it's an important discussion, but I find myself bemused by the self image overload. As women we grow up with the deeply ingrained notion of beauty. Even if you have the upbringing of everyone is beautiful in their own way, you figure out pretty quick as teen that some girls are more "gifted" in the looks department than others. It's just a fact.  And beauty is subjective, each generation and each person has their own terms and definitions of what is beautiful.

I never thought of myself as "beautiful." I never thought of myself as "ugly" either. I have decent attributes, and always thought I was at least average in the looks department if not a bit better than average. And some days are definitely better than others. Hell some days I think I look down right gorgeous, but those are rarer occasions. 
My main issue with self reflection is photos. I can't even count the times I look in the mirror and think, "I look really good!" and then someone takes a photo of me and I look awful. What the heck happened between the mirror and the lens? In college I came across the above Ani Difranco quote and adopted it as my mantra. 

The best thing I can stress is positive thinking. Negative thinking only brings misery, but positive thoughts eventually spread, and can not only help your own personal well being, but that of those around you. 

I will never forget the assessment I got from a guy a dated. I'll preface it by saying that not being attracted to someone is a legitimate reason to end a relationship. However, there is no need to go into detail as to what you find unattractive.

“ your personality is great, and i really love talking to you- but the truth was, it was physical- I'm not attracted to you- something about your face (kind of that north mountain not by the ocean but still by the water look) just turned me off- and you didn't have the body to make up for that deficit . which is kind of important in a relationship. i thought since really liked your personality that it would make up for it.... but when im honest with myself, it didn't” 

My reaction, once shock wore off, was laughter. I couldn't stop laughing for days.  "north mountain not by the ocean but still by the water look" What is that exactly?? 

Not to sound vain, but I had never gotten the "at least you have a nice personality" speech before or since.

This so called "relationship" end shortly before I ended up dating the man who later became my husband. My husband adores me. He constantly tells me how beautiful I am. And you know what? It's a wonderful feeling. 

So, superficial or not, I put it to you, what is so wrong with the term "beautiful," really?

Further enlightening reading I stumbled across today here:

http://www.eatthedamncake.com/2013/02/19/why-arent-we-allowed-to-think-were-pretty/

Books

As my profile image suggests, books are very important to me. I grew-up in a house where I had my own "library." Eight descent sized shelves full of books from the time I was very young. I realize that if I had had a sibling, I would have been forced to share. My parents, after a fashion, had their own library space with shelves from floor to (slanted) ceiling — all full of books. This is not including the boxes upon boxes of inherited, hand-me-down books in the closets and attic. 

I never understood homes with only a dozen or so books. 

When I was living on my own, I found my happy place, my oasis, was Barnes and Noble. The smell of a new book is intoxicating and comforting to me. When my husband and I bought our first house last year, I commissioned large shelves for the living room, which were instantly filled with books.

I've always had an issue with the notion of throwing out a book. Even if I truly hated something I've read, I've held on to it because somewhere in my moral code it's ingrained that it's wrong to dispose of a book in such a fashion, unless it's damaged beyond repair. 

Books are vessels of magic. By just the turn of a page, you can escape into another place, another world, another life. 

The end of a good story shakes your entire world for a moment— there's a period of contentment (at a solid conclusion) followed by a sense of loss and sometimes slight depression. A truly excellent book makes your heart race, your brain whir and even sometimes changes you perspective on life itself. 

Books have saved me on more than one occasion. When I was as low as I could get, they lifted me back up and gave me a brighter perspective. 

In an age of technology, it's more imperative to instill our children with a love of reading. And not reading on some screen, but with paper in hand. It's a simple piece of magic we can touch and feel, and the tactility of books is a precious thing.

Best friends

Best friends. It's a concept that becomes prevalent at an early age and one we cling to well into adulthood. Anne Shirley called it "kindred spirit," a person you connect to not only through physical interactions like hangout out but through intellectual and emotional bond.

As kids and teens we try to symbolize these relationships to the world through friendship jewelry and internet proclamations. Why do we do this? Why is it so important to label people in this fashion?

In my case, I think it comes down to not having many friends when I was younger. It made the friends I did have all that more precious to me, and I felt and deep desire to make sure they felt the same about me. So I purchased the interlocking, matching jewelry — frequently in fact, lots of times for the same people.

But once you "grow-up", once you move away, get a job and start your "life," things that were once so important, change. I came to realize that when it came to friendships, true friendships, there was an easy way to tell if the other person really cared about you — time and effort. When I looked at a number of my relationships, I realized for some I was putting in all the time and all the effort. These were people who never invited me to do anything, or who never could be bothered to come and visit me — I always had to go to them. I was the one calling and e-mailing. I was the one putting in all of the effort. Those relationships are emotionally and even physically draining. The same went for dating — until my now husband, I was the one who put in all the effort, which is why I went for so many years as being "single."

So I re-evaluated. I stepped back and let go. I decided that if a person truly cares about me and wants to spend time with me, they will put in at least some effort to make it happen. 

If someone asks or tells you to do something that your gut tells you is wrong, than it probably is and you shouldn't do it. You should also reconsider who you're taking your cues from, because those people are not "best friend" material.

The term "best friend" is an interesting concept. Early in our relationship, my husband was hurt when I referred to one of my girlfriends as "my best friend." He said he though he was my best friend, as I was his. 

I've since had to redefine the term, both for others and for myself. A person can have more than one "best friend." I realize the grammar is at issue with that statement, however as "best friend" or "BFF" is such a deeply ingrained concept, it's difficult to explain the position otherwise, so I decided to keep the term regardless. There are a hand full of people I consider my best friends — my husband included. These are people who have been there for me in hard times and never asked more of me than I was willing or able to give. 

One of my "best friends" has people in her life that tell her to do horrible things, who lecture and berate her in the name of "friendship." And she listens, mistaking these as people who care for her and have her best interest at heart. I wish I could convince her to ignore these influences, but that's not a choice I can make. All I can do is try to explain what a real friend is and hope she comes to the same conclusion I did years ago.

Happiness can be achieved by removing negative energy from your life. Not in a cement shoes and a deep pond kind of way, just in stepping back and letting go. Make time and effort for those who make time and effort for you. Spend more time with people who make you feel good about yourself, who take your best interest to heart, and less with those who are draining and negative. 

I will be a writer

I know I've been absent for awhile. I doubt anyone missed me, but I wanted to share this:

“As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I’m not sure that I’m going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says, ‘You are nothing,’ I will be a writer.” 

- Hunter S. Thompson 

♥

The Green Man

(a piece of creative writing)

Green is the land I come from. Rocky hills and ancient forests, all green as far your mind can dare to dream.

Legends say that the ancient forests are alive. Not merely alive with creatures clawing, or plants climbing, but alive in its own right — thinking, feeling, moving.

On quiet days, the trees seem to whisper on the edge of the turf, welcoming you, tempting you with cool shade and babbling brooks.

And deep in the trees lies the Green Man

Wild and covered with leaves.

The forest's defense and prisoner,

Lord over all that he sees.

Great is the risk to the traveler

Who knows not the threat of the wood

Else a patch of turf or tree appears

Where once a strong man stood

For great is the task of the Green Man

And old is the power he welds

Doom to the corrupt and careless

Only virtuous may gain his shield.

Once while riding through the wood, I came across an elderly man, bent with age, cloaked and leaning on rough-hewn yew cane. I paused to offer him a lift on my steed, but he gently refused. I asked if there was anything else I could do for him, if he had kin that might be missing him I could call upon. He shook his head, and thanked me for my kindness. Unable to aid him, I continued on.

Further down the path, the thicket ahead shook and I slowed my mount.

Silence. Cautiously I pushed forward.   Rustle.   Crack.

Then a tumultuous noise surrounded me. With a shrill cry, my horse bucked, tossing me from my seat. Brigands. Thieves. Dirty, hairy men with knives drawn closed in toward me while others grab my mount.

Six against one, and I unarmed. I eyed the blade and bow strapped firmly to my saddle. I closed my eyes and steadied my breath, readying myself to claw, kick, bite, even though I knew it to be in vain.

A scream. I opened my eyes to witness the thug before me drop heavily to the ground, a single bolt protruding from his back. The men paused. Their countenance paled.

One by one they turned to run. Four more fell to my mysterious savior. The last mounted my horse and pounded away down the road.

I looked up to see a form jump down from the trees. Tall and cloaked in green, spattered with mud, the figure moved toward me.

"You are safe."

There was no sound, yet I heard the words form in my mind. "You are safe, I do not seek to harm you."

He stretched a callused hand out to me. Still in shock, I took it and he lifted me to my feet.

Reaching up he lowered his hood. His countenance was tan and scarred beneath a beard as brown as the dirt on his cloak. In contrast, his eyes were soft and kind, mirroring the brilliant green of the trees. Despite his rough appearance, he was not much older than myself. His knotted hair was tied back, and in it I noticed a hint of green.

I managed a "thank you" and shook the dust from my skirts. He smiled and spoke, "you showed me kindness, I merely returned it."

I looked up sharply. "When did I..." Then I saw it. The cloak was the same that had clothed the old man. As I watched he took the bow from his back and turned it, revealing the cane of yew.

"You offered me a ride, let me do you the same curtesy." He whistled sharply. From the wood appeared a white hart, larger than any stag I had seen before.

Lifting me up, he placed me carefully on the animal's back. I wrapped my arms cautiously around its neck and heard

"Take her home."

In an instant the beast dove into the trees. I thought sure I would be torn from its back, but no branch came near, no bush seemed to hinder him. The forest seemed to move to oblige the stag.

Once home, I dismounted, patted the beast's side and made my way up the walk. When I turned back, the stag was gone.

My family thought me over tired and distressed, not believing the story I told. An illusion, a fantasy.

In the weeks that followed, I traversed the woods in search of my rescuer, to no avail. In the night I heard his voice in the trees, calling to me.

One evening as darkness settled around the edges of the turf, I heard a familiar sound. Near the wood stood my lost steed. He whinnied a greeting to me. I patted his neck and he lent on me, turning toward the trees. I paused, uncertain. A wisp of wind caught my ear.

"Ride."

I mounted and rode,

For I am in love with The Green Man.

Deep in the forest of trees.

He is my defender, my heart, my breath.

From him I will never leave.